VI.
“My father’s face”
My father’s face—
I think I see my father’s face
in the dreams where heaven asks
why I turn my back.
But it is not my God I deplore
but it is him I deplore.
It happened once more. My tenth
Christmas.
Light from the candles bright on the
frost.
He liked to slide his hands around my
hips
so there was no escaping it.
He would part my lips in desire
to take me over
and I liked it.
I know I did,
I couldn’t help the feeling.
So much penetrated to the core of me
I almost laugh.
My life is like a sheaf
of papers bundled together
by the hands of my father
the memory in me like lightning
fueling me, making me quick and living,
so how can I hate him so absolutely?
Strange fire inside him flaming
made shadow of his soul.
He was, I recognize, unwell,
arrogance in the sun he held himself
like glass to light to examine himself.
I cannot make him budge
remove him from the edge
of my consciousness.
It is a deadly silence
I will take to my grave
what good his love
did me,
teaching suffering
from before an age I even recall.
Soon comes fall
and then comes winter.
Each season’s time enters
but it will always be
me the pliant air, him the incessant wing.
Sexton: one who sees
there is sanctity in routine
that heaven gives us habit
in place of happiness
Andrew Tye is from a town named Temple. He believes all humans are poets. He performs his forthcoming book My Son as a one-man show in NYC. He aims to share the book and the show with national audiences.